


Yellow Brick Road (Gypsy Life)

by armlessphelan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 23:38:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armlessphelan/pseuds/armlessphelan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Allison walks out on Scott, all he can do is run. Life on the road is hell, and he's drawn into a dark world of murder and witchcraft by a mysterious woman. But in another part of the world, Allison is fighting a private war against everything she once stood for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The road was uneven and cracks littered the pavement. On either side, his view was nothing but desert. He just couldn't seem to go fast enough. Even though the speed limit was a distant memory, she wasn't.

Scott McCall was haunted by their final words, by the things she had told him. He hadn't even said goodbye: to her, or to anyone else. All the farewells that needed to be said were already there. They were in that single, one way plane ticket to France. The ticket she was holding when she walked out him and everything they had built together.

Not even the wind could cool the heat he felt from the blistering summer sun. The Arizona desert was harsh. Scott didn't even know where he was going, or what he'd do when his motorcycle finally ran out of gas.

It had been at least an hour since he'd last seen another person. There was a sign indicating he was coming up on another town, someplace he could stay for the night and ignore the buzz of his phone. His mother, his friends, his job: nobody knew why he'd left. If they did, Allison had told them. But she hadn't even told him she was leaving. He'd come home early to find he getting ready to leave without a word. She was going to do to him what he had done to everyone else.

Another twenty minutes, and Scott was pulling into what looked like a reservation town. He hadn't realized that he'd crossed into Native American land. The gas station was old and dirty, as was everything else. It reeked of poverty, much like the town in Mexico he'd visited with his mother when her mother had died.

The woman manning the register, a teenager, really, took his twenty dollar bill with suspicion and held it up to the blistering light. Deciding it was legit when she'd seen the watermark, so primed Scott's pump.

"Is there a place I can stay for the night?" Scott toyed with a small bag of potato chips from the rack on the counter. He sat in front of her and retrieved another five from his wallet. His cash reserves were running low. Sooner or later, he'd have to use his debit card and then anybody looking for him would be able to find him. He wasn't ready to be found. It was why he'd disabled the GPS on his phone an hour out of Beacon Hills.

The girl counted out his change, then told him of a small bed and breakfast on the edge of town. "It's actually where the owner of the park lives. He rents out the rooms in his house to travellers to help cover the costs of upkeep."

"The park?" Scott stuffed the bills and coins into his pocket with little regard.

"Trailer park. You don't see any houses, do you?" The girl looked at Scott hard, as if daring him to say something. "You'll see it soon enough. This isn't that big a place."

Scott nodded and thanked the girl for her help. She didn't seem interested in his thanks, but sent him on his way with a "please come again" that she didn't mean.

It was only five minutes on the same stretch of road, which had a few small shops and one bar, but Scott found himself looking at a rundown house in front of several more rundown single- and double-wide trailers. He killed the engine on his motorcycle and held his helmet in his hands.

The house reminded Scott of Derek's house before he had burned it down. It wasn't that it was a burnt out husk, though it was on the verge of ruin from years of disrepair, but there was something that played at his senses. He could sense the supernatural, years of living as a werewolf and tied to a Nemeton would do that to a guy. And this sad excuse for a bed and breakfast scared Scott.

Pushing back his fear, Scott gripped his helmet and climbed off his bike. There was nobody around. The wind whispered warnings to him, which he found comforting. The sensation of danger had been the first thing to take his mind off of Allison.

The inside of the house was slightly less depressing than the outside. Everything was clean, but it was just as worn out as the rest of the town.

"Hello?" Scott called as he walked up to the counter and dinged the bell. Within seconds, an old woman with dark, wrinkled skin greeted him with a snaggletoothed smile.

"Well, hello!" she greeted with enthusiasm. It was the first sign of life Scott had seen in hours. The girl at the gas station had been far too listless for being so young. "Welcome to my home! You want a single room?"

"Yes, please," Scott answered as he pulled out his wallet. The girl at the gas station had told Scott a man ran the place, so he assumed the old woman was an employee or his mother. "Just for one night."

She cooed and awed as she took Scott's money, had him sign some ledger, then gave him a key for a room on the second floor. The old woman explained that the third floor was for family only.

"And if you see our new caretaker, please try not to stare too much. The poor thing was in an accident of some sort years ago." The warning made Scott raise his eyebrows. Until she'd said that, he had almost forgotten that something wanted him out of the house.

It wasn't his business, though. He wasn't a hero right now. Saving people and fighting big bads was what people who didn't run away did. And nothing about the town, or even the house itself, seemed dangerous. It was just wrong. Or so he told himself.

"I'll keep that in mind." Scott offered the old lady a smile. Then he looked at the room number taped to his key.

He was walking up the stairs to his room as someone else was rushing down. She apologized and smiled at Scott. He did his best to smile back, but it was harder than he'd anticipated.: much of her nose and half of her upper lip were missing.

"It's fine," he said as he held his hand out. His eyes locked onto the piece of wall just beside her head.

She shook his hand and both parties jerked away in shock. Scott stared at his hand. His fingernails had extended into claws and there was fur along the back.

"You're a werewolf," the woman whispered as she stepped up to Scott and touched his face. "I haven't seen one of you in so long..."

Unable to say anything, Scott just stared into her brown eyes as she ran her thumb across his cheek. She was dark: darker than the other people of the town, darker than Scott himself.

"I haven't seen one of your kind since this," the woman ran her other hand over her scars. "Why are you... Sorry, we can't talk now. What room are you in?"

Still unable to speak, Scott held his key up so she could read it. Her narrowed on the numbers and she retracted her hand.

"I'll talk to you tonight after nightfall. If you're here for the same reason I am, we should work together. If you're not, this conversation never happened. I'll keep your secret either way."

She turned away from Scott and disappeared down the stairs. All he could do was watch where she had been, his skin warm where she had touched him.

TW

The soundtrack of Scott's evening had been the concerned voice mails of his family and friends. A few of them even mentioned that Allison had gone missing as well. Those were the ones he deleted.

All he had eaten was the small bag of chips he bought earlier in the day. He hadn't even managed to keep those down, vomiting into the toilet less than twenty minutes after throwing the crumbled bag into the small garbage bin in his room.

Once, just once, Scott had thought about calling Stiles when he heard his friend sobbing into the phone. Stiles said that he hoped Scott was safe. It didn't happen. He wasn't ready. He didn't want anyone to worry about him, but just the thought of telling them why he left froze him in fear. It was unfair how much sway Allison held over his life, even though she had walked out. She had left him.

It didn't change anything, though. Scott still listened to every voice mail she had left him. Over and over, he heard the happiness in her voice as she told him she was running late, or picking up dinner. Had she been faking it as she plotted her escape? When he had held her, their bodies naked and flush with want, had she been trying to decide if she would stay after or just disappear?

When Scott's phone beeped, telling him that the battery life was less than ten percent, he let himself listen to Allison one last time. She wanted him to get dryer sheets after work. Then he plugged his phone into the cheap charger he'd bought his second day on the road. It was getting easier to pretend that he didn't have a life waiting for him.

A knock on the door disrupted his self-pitying reverie, and he remembered that the black woman from before had said something about meeting him. The sense of danger had never left. He welcomed the distraction from thoughts of Allison.

The carpet was so worn down, Scott swore he could feel the wood beneath it through his shoes. When he opened the door, the woman was waiting there like she promised. She also bore a plastic bag in her left hand.

"I picked up some stuff to eat. I noticed you were travelling on a motorcycle and figured you weren't hauling food," she explained as she held up the bag. There was something in a box poking through a small hole in the side.

"Thanks, but I'm not really hungry." Scott stepped back and let her into his room. She pulled a white powder out of her pocket and blew it through the doorway. It automatically settled on the frame of the door. Scott looked at her, and she indicated that he should shut it.

"It's just a small spell to keep anyone from overhearing us. Just a basic soundproofing, not hard to break, but noticeable if anyone does." The woman looked Scott over, then sat on his bed. He stood by the door with his arms crossed, waiting for her to say something else. She still hadn't explained how she knew what he was. Scott didn't even know her name yet.

"Who are you?" He felt the words rush out of his mouth before he was ready to say them. There were too many questions percolating in his brain for him to settle on one to start.

She tilted her head and smiled. It was unsettling for Scott, so he looked away. He'd forgotten her scars in his brief confusion.

"I'm Braeden. Braeden Morrell. I think I know you." Scott's ears perked up at her last name, but he said nothing. It likely wasn't a coincidence, but he didn't want to give anything away. "You're The Alpha."

"I'm an alpha," Scott confirmed suspiciously. "You're a druid. Aren't you?"

The woman nodded and furrowed her brow. "Scott McCall. You know my brother and sister. Alan and Marin."

Scott's arms were still crossed. He knelt forward but didn't walk to her. "You're supposed to be dead. That alpha pack that invaded Beacon Hills a few years ago was supposed to have killed you."

"They came close." Braeden traced the outline of where she used to have a nose with her fingertip. "Oh, right, I can drop the glamour."

As Scott watched, the woman waved a hand over her face and the scars vanished. They left behind a face free of disfigurements.

"We fixed it years ago. Druids can do that. But I like the glamour because I see how people really treat me. And people don't want to look at you when you're scarred like that. It makes investigating a little easier."

"You still haven't explained anything. At all." Scott let a bit of a growl into his voice. "Why are you here? Why are Deaton and Morrell still saying you're dead?"

"After what happened in Beacon Hills, I couldn't be in that town anymore. I... I needed to get away. Alan and Marin knew I might still be a target. Deucalion isn't the most forgiving guy. So they helped me get out of town. I still call sometimes, but most days I just travel trying to fix what went wrong. Beacon Hills and Cleveland aren't the only places where the supernatural has taken root. You had to have picked up on that." Braeden watched Scott's face, but he did his best to keep it blank. "But why are you alone? Most alphas don't travel without their pack. It's a lot easier for you to become a target than travelling alone as an omega. Nobody pays attention to omegas."

"That's not been my experience." Scott almost chuckled, but he was too suspicious. "And my travelling habits are none of your business."

"Fine." Braeden laid back on Scott's bed rested her head on the pillows. "You customers actually have worse beds than the employees. All three of us. Damn. Didn't think that was possible."

"What is happening that would attract a druid's attention?" Scott wasn't in the mood to play around. Even if this was the same person that had saved Isaac all those years ago, even if she was Deaton and Morrell's sister, Scott didn't know her. He didn't trust her.

"If I knew exactly what was wrong, I wouldn't still be investigating. I've been here a week. All I know is that this town is still living like it's the Great Depression. I think half the people here are unemployed, and the other half have to drive an hour away to work for minimum wage off the reservation."

"Don't these guys have casinos they can live off of?" The last thing Scott wanted was a lecture on finances. He hoped the sarcasm in his reply was thick enough for Braeden to pick up on it.

"Do you know how few people see any of that money? But, anyway, getting back on track..."

"Finally," Scott muttered. Braeden gave him a dirty look.

"As I was saying, the town itself is depressed, but it's just this house, this one location, that gives off the vibes. Bad mojo is afoot. Even the trailer park out back is clean. I've been in every room in the house, but not the basement. And it's always the basement."

"So why do you need my help?" Scott let a little bit of excitement build in his chest. Whenever he was home, there was always some new danger to get adrenaline up. With the others still there, the town would be safe enough. They didn't really need him or Allison anymore.

Braeden smirked. "I've already determined that I can break any enchantments on the door, but I can't actually open it. There is a really old, really heavy iron lock on it. And that should be nothing for you."

"So I'm just muscle?" Scott actually laughed. Of all the things she could have asked, all she needed was for him to open a door. "Sure, fine, I'll help. When did you want to do this?"

"Now works for me." Braeden shrugged and pulled a knife from her pocket. It wasn't one made for combat, not like what Allison used. It was just a collapsible pocket knife. She clicked it open, then shut it again and put it in her pocket.

"Now it is, then. I'm leaving tomorrow anyway, so if the owner kicks me out or is a chupacabra I don't have to worry."

TW

Scott smelled the basement long before they reached it. Braeden told him she couldn't smell anything, so they agreed his wolf senses were likely the reason why he could. He wasn't sure what it was, because it was faint, but it bothered him.

There were wards on the door. The woman said something about alarms and barriers and other things Scott had always left for Lydia and occasionally Stiles to deal with: the wards took about ten minutes to dissipate. All the time, Scott uselessly kept watch even though he could hear the other occupants of the house being silent.

When the last of the mystical protections fell, Scott heard the screams. One look at Braeden told him that she heard them as well. The faint smell that had been coming from the basement suddenly assaulted his olfactory senses as raw and rotting meat. It reeked like a bloating, rotting deer on the side of the road. If it weren't for the magic at play, Scott wouldn't have believed that it had gone undetected.

Braeden tensed herself, then nodded at Scott. Her eyes led to the heavy brass lock on the door. Not even caring about being stealthy, because he didn't know who wouldn't hear the wailing, Scott ripped the door off its hinges and threw it to the side. The wall splintered where the door struck.

Even though Braeden hard assured Scott that there were no more enchantments in place, a hazy purple aura hung in the air where the door used to be. The woman reached her dark hand out to touch the violet-Scott wanted to call it a mist because no other word fit. She ran the tips of her fingers through it, then pulled them back.

"What?" Scott growled as he began his shift. His senses and experience both told him it would be necessary.

"It's warm. Hot actually. Not scalding, but not comfortable." Braeden set her eyes and calmed herself. Scott hadn't even noticed she was shaking until she stopped. Steeling himself, Scott passed through the portal and found himself not in a basement.

Braeden followed close behind, actually bumping into Scott. Neither spoke, they just stared at the carnage before them.

It was almost like an indoor zoo, if Scott had recognized any of the creatures on display. Monsters, for they couldn't be called animals, lined one wall in cages of different sizes. Some were beside each other, eyeing their neighbours suspiciously, and others were about a foot apart so they couldn't reach each other.

The other wall was one large cage. It was almost empty, save for three humans in various stages off injury. Scott had no idea if the youngest, just a child, was even alive considering it was missing all four limbs and half its face. He couldn't even tell if it was a boy or girl. All he knew was that the urge to vomit was rising in the back of his throat.

"Help us!" One of the occupants, a middle aged man who seemed to be well past hysteria, shrieked at them. He looked fine for the most part, missing only one hand that had been wrapped in his dirty shirt. The other adult, a woman, hissed at them to leave and return with either cops or the army.

The smell of electricity hit the air and someone else cried out. Scott happily looked away from the captives and saw the old woman who had checked him into the b&b lying on the filthy floor. Braeden stood over her, pulling twins barbs from the fallen female. They were attached to wires that protruded from a stun gun. He didn't know Braeden had been carrying any weapons.

"Get to work on that cage before someone else shows up," Braeden said calmly as she put the stun gun back into an interior pocket in her jacket. Then she pulled out a set of handcuffs and put them on the unconscious woman. "I'll see if there's anyone else here."

That was when Scott realized that the room wasn't a rectangle, but instead curved at the end and continued beyond where he could see. Without thinking, he ripped the metal door off the cage and dropped it. It'd been easier than he'd expected, but the humans inside shrank away in fear. That was when he realized that he was still in his wolf form.

He didn't say anything, just backed away from the captives and looked to Braeden. She told them to leave and they did. The child, or what was left of it, was ignored by the two fleeing adults. Scott made sure he would come back for it when they left.

The woman and the werewolf advanced slowly. Some of the monstrosities on their left snarled and snapped. Others ignored them in favour of sleep. One was knowing on a small leg and it took everything Scott had not to try to kill it.

"What do you think did this? What kind of monster are we dealing with?" Scott asked Braeden nervously. He flexed his claws and growled at a particularly vicious beast: it resembled a mountain lion that had been skinned. It didn't make a sound. Instead, it just watched him with soulless eyes.

"Humans. In all the years I've done this, I've gone up against demons and creatures of forgotten lore. There was even an elder god in there that was barely a stalemate. Still, none of them frightened me quite as much as our fellow man."

Scott wanted to point out that, technically, he wasn't human anymore, but he let it go. Because even with their magics: druids, wizards, and that one covens of witches that had descended on Beacon Hills were all technically human but showed little to no humanity themselves.

They continued in silence. Scott could hear something at the end of the long and twisting hall. There was another door. It was bathed in darkness, and before he could even think to approach it, Braeden threw her arm across his chest. She pulled a bottle of a silvery liquid from another interior pocket and removed the lid.

The smell threatened to overwhelm Scott, and Braeden offered him an apologetic look. Then she splashed the contents of the bottle on the door and it began to melt.

"Stand back," she ordered as she crouched behind an empty cage. Deciding that it wasn't enough protection, Scott shielded her body with his own. Then the door exploded. Hot shrapnel embedded itself into his back and his neck. Braeden apologized, but quickly rose to her feet and pulled out another vial. Scott didn't even have to take a second to recognize it as mountain ash.

Braeden quickly cast a circle of it around Scott while he was down from the pain. He looked up at her in confusion, but she wasn't looking at him.

The woman had her eyes fixed on what remained of the doorway, and she pulled her taser back out of the pocket where she'd stored it. A man was leaving the room from the other side. Scott could barely make out a wall covered in photos, drawings, and writings behind him.

"You look familiar," the man said to Braeden. Scott remembered she had her glamour down, so of course he'd recognize the new caretaker but not be able to place her. "I'm not sure how you managed to find this place, but my food supply for my babies was getting low and you look like you'll do. And you've even brought me a new pet! I've never managed to get a werewolf before."

"How did you get so many?" Braeden didn't yell or advance on the man, but Scott did see her a shift her feet. It was a hint that she might have realized she was in over her head. "Where did you get them?"

"Family heirlooms and traditions," was all he said, the brown skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled. Then Braeden fired her taser and he dove to the side. It missed and she tossed it aide. The discarded weapon hit the floor and she leaped at the man. Her foot almost connected with his face, but the palm of his hand deflected her trajectory and she fell onto her backside.

Scott felt his skin pushing out the bits of metal and wood. His claws pushed against the mystical barrier. He knew he would likely remain trapped, but he'd broken one before. Years ago, when his English teacher was also a serial killing dark druid. He could do it again. Whether or not he had the strength to pass through his pain was the question.

Braeden slammed her forehead into that of the middle-aged keeper. He recoiled slightly and she drove her fist into his chest. When she pulled it back, Scott saw it was covered in blood.

She flipped her knife shut, then punched him in the throat. It was likely only a flesh wound. Scott hoped it was a flesh wound. The blade was neither particularly sharp nor long. Still, something about the action the woman had taken left a sour taste in his mouth.

The woman then grabbed a piece of the broken door, a long piece of wood, and smacked the guy in the face with it. Scott yelled at her to stop, but she ignored him. Then she climbed on top of the man and pinned his arms down with her knees. The wood was to his throat and a struggle to breathe was the soundtrack.

Scott fought against the mountain ash, screamed for Braeden not to do what she was doing, but it didn't matter. He was too weak to break his containment and stop her. The echo of a man dying assaulted his ears. Then there was a crack and Scott knew it wasn't from the wood.

Braeden threw her makeshift murder weapon to the side and walked to Scott. He wouldn't look at her. Silent, she scattered the ash and stepped back. Both knew he neither wanted nor would have accepted her help.

"You didn't have to kill him. The cops would have handled it." Scott looked at Braeden when he found his voice. She didn't look different, but he knew he would see her differently now. This woman he had known for less than an hour... "We can be better than they are."

"The cops can't know about this place." Her voice was confident. She wasn't lying to herself. Her heartbeat told Scott she believed what she was saying. "Look at what is here. An enchanted tunnel under an old bed and breakfast where they feed humans to any number of things that shouldn't exist. It was a line I've crossed before and one I'll cross again."

"But the old woman..." Scott couldn't finish his sentence, his eyes locked onto the glassy orbs of the dead man.

“I don't know what I'll do with her, but it'll be something. First, though, we have to destroy these things. And I have supplies, but there are so many... I don't think I have enough. And I don't even know what some of these things are or how to kill them. Dammit.” For the first time, Scott detected doubt in what Braeden was saying. “You could probably handle some of the smaller ones, but I can't ask you to do that.”

Scott was finally able to stand. He leaned against an empty cage and grimaced. The smaller pieces of shrapnel had already fallen to the floor, but the bigger ones were being stubborn. “I'm not letting you kill her.”

“You aren't in a position to stop me,” Braeden warned coldly. “She was a party to this. Probably raised this bastard,” she kicked the still warm corpse at her feet, “to continue the work she had inherited from her parents. This isn't an innocent old grandmother. Who knows how many hundreds, maybe even thousands of people were killed in this damn showcase of the underworld?”

“I'm not letting you kill her.” A low growl accompanied Scott's words and he bared his teeth. The woman didn't look at all scared of him. She just smiled and stepped into through the doorway she had blown up. If he could have, Scott would have followed her, but it still took all he had to remain on his feet. Whatever concoction she'd used on the door was slowing his regenerative abilities.

When she came back out, all she had in her possession was a book. “Bestiary,” she explained as she held the aged tome up for Scott to see. “I was hoping it would help me identify how to kill some of these things, but it would take forever and I can't be in town too much longer.”

“Why not?” Scott grit his teeth and willed the last piece of metal out of his body. “Too many murder charges following you?”

The woman narrowed her eyes at him and tucked the book under her arm. “No. I just know that if I disappear, nobody will ask questions. People never want these things solved, they just want them over.”

“That's cynical.”

“It's true.” Braeden wrapped an arm around Scott's torso and helped him stand. He considered pushing her away, but thought better of it. “If nothing else, I can always just seal the entrance and destroy this place.”

TW

The decision of what to do with the old woman had been taken from them as she'd died from what Scott guessed was a heart attack. Braeden said it was probably a result of trauma from the taser. She didn't seem to care, and that bothered him.

What bothered him more was that Braeden drove her old truck into the front of the bed and breakfast, then ran to Scott and hid behind him as it blew up.

“I hated that thing. Gas guzzling piece of shit,” she told Scott as they watched the burning wreckage. He'd been the only guest, she was the only employee, so the house was empty. Neither knew where the captives had fled, but the child had been dead. A little boy whose name Scott would never know and whose face he'd never forget. He hated how detached Braeden was acting. People were dead: people she had killed, and she was cracking jokes about her car.

“Can they get out?” Scott opted not to acknowledge Braeden's joke. “Are the people of this town safe?”

Braeden stepped out from behind Scott and looked at the trailer park. Nobody came out of their trailer. Nobody even turned a light on. “They should be. I cast a sealing spell before I blew the place up, but even if the things escape I don't really care. They had to have known. There were too many things there for this town to not know. Guests were kept as food, so what happened to the cars? Why didn't anyone warn you about people vanishing? Even if they weren't directly involved, and I don't know they weren't, these people are just as guilty by association.”

“That isn't fair.”

Looking at Scott, her face hidden by the shadows cast by the blaze behind her, Braeden pushed her hair behind her ears. “Listen, I'm not a good guy. I do the things that need done. If people die, they either deserved it or I couldn't stop it. The one thing I won't do is apologize for stopping a murderous piece of shit.”

“But you aren't God. You don't get to make the call over who lives or dies.” Scott walked to his motorcycle and threw his leg over the seat, then looked back at Braeden. “Come on, I'll drop you off in the next town.”  
“What are you doing?”

Scott looked out at the dust covered road. It almost looked yellow in the firelight. He kept his eyes focused on the dark horizon, ignoring that his phone was vibrating again.

“Unlike you, I am a good guy. And I can't leave you in the middle of nowhere.”

Sauntering to Scott, Braeden sat behind him on the seat and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Fine, but on one condition. You answer that phone call that you've been dodging. I don't know you, but I know of you, and my brother told me you aren't the kind of man who would run from a fight. So stop running from whatever it is you left in California. I'm the only one who can be a brooding anti-hero.”

“If you're an anti-hero, does that make me a superhero?” Scott grinned despite himself. He looked at Braeden and saw that she was smiling, too.

She squeezed Scott's midsection and chuckled. “I wouldn't go that far, Scarecrow.”

“Scarecrow?”

“Just go,” Braeden commanded. Scott nodded and started his motorcycle.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Allison had noticed about France was that it was cold. Not freezing, just a little chilly. It struck her that it was the first time in years she had been somewhere other than California.

Clutching her carry-on bag, she walked into the airport lobby and looked around. Paris was busy. It didn't surprise Allison, but it still overwhelmed her. Beacon Hills was a relatively small town in comparison. It was possible there were more people in the airport alone than the entire population of the town she'd left behind. Men and women streamed around her as she stood in place and looked around. Someone was supposed to meet her here. It wasn't that the note on the back of the picture had told her this. It was just something she knew.

It was three minutes before she saw the diminutive man. He was unassuming: just a white man in his 30s wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and holding a sign with her last name on it. She approached him and he asked her something in French. She'd studied the language briefly in high school. It was enough to learn her family's old code and create the new one, but it had been years and she barely remembered any of it.

"Miss Argent?" The man's English was impeccable, with barely a hint of a French accent. It wasn't British English, though. It was some weird amalgamation of Boston and the Deep South. The kind of thing people would emulate if they watched trashy American reality shows.

"Allison," she confirmed suspiciously. She didn't trust the man. In fact, she had every reason not to trust him. The envelope in her bag was proof of that.

"If you'll come with me," he said, nodding his head in the direction of the exit. "We have a ride waiting for you."

She tightened her grip on her luggage and followed. She had no idea who these people were. All she knew was that they knew about Scott and that coming to this city was the only reason he was still alive.

The memory of her boyfriend, the man she'd shared years of her life and home with, it killed her. She saw the devastation on his face as she walked out of his life whenever she closed her eyes. He would never forgive her; she'd never forgive herself. It was okay. He was alive.

The ride was a red car: German and expensive and fairly new. It was probably two years old at the latest. The man opened the passenger side door for her, and she sat in the seat. The interior was only two seats, three if nobody buckled up. The driver was a pale woman with jet black hair, not unlike Allison's own before she'd added the dyes and highlights.

She was shocked by the man slamming the door and walking away. The driver started the engine and drove. She said nothing to Allison; barely even looked at her. So Allison held her bag to her chest and looked out the window.

It was a beautiful city: buildings old and new flying bye as people went in and out of shops or enjoyed local foods. Every girl at some point in life wanted to visit Paris. Lydia had actually gone once: during Fashion Week their senior year. The pictures and clothes she'd brought back were gorgeous and expensive. Now it just left Allison cold inside.

There wasn't a thing she could do. If she did whatever these people wanted, Scott would stay safe. The problem was that she didn't know what they wanted or who they were. All she knew was that they had a picture of Scott asleep, asleep in their bed, with a cross hair on his chest and a plane ticket stapled to it. And the back of the picture had one word on it. After a trip to Google translate, the word had turned out to be "execution".

It was two hours outside of the city, in a rural little hamlet that existed in fairy tales, that they finally came to a stop. The woman indicated with a grunt that Allison should get out. She did, and the woman followed suit.

Even though Allison had never been to the village before, it felt familiar. Something in her blood reacted to the air. She felt revitalized, like she could take on an alpha by herself and win.

"Welcome home." The driver's voice was cold, and the smile on her face sent a river of fear down Allison's spine.

"Home?" Allison had never been to France before. There was only one way anyone would call it Allison's home.

"This is the Argent Compound," the woman explained, confirming Allison's suspicion. "It has another name, but since you're a guest you don't need to know it."

Then Allison took a whiff of a passing breeze and smelled it: wolfsbane. She looked around and saw the plant growing everywhere. People had it in their lawns, in gardens hanging from their windows, a couple even had it on their roofs. She even spotted mistletoe hanging from above every house.

"Why am I here?" Allison let her fingers go slack on her bag.

"You're here because they summoned you. That's all I can tell you." The driver led Allison to a nondescript building. It reeked of mountain ash and wolfsbane. Many years of experience had left her with an acute sense of smell. It was nowhere near as good as Scott's, but she knew those two scents well.

The interior of the building was colder than the exterior, which Allison found unusual since it was already chilly outside. She was distracted by being able to see her own breath. With her guard down, she was unprepared for the two men who approached. One immediately tore the bag from her grasp while the other began to pat her down. It took everything Allison had to not respond with violence.

None of the other three bothered to explain that it was a security check. They either assumed Allison already knew, or they didn't care. Both kind of pissed her off.

"We'll process this," one of the men finally told Allison as he walked out of the room via a side door. It was painted the same grey as the walls. He had her bag, everything she had brought with her, in tow. He even had the picture of Scott that they'd sent.

"Come along," the other said as he grabbed her by the arm. Jerking out of his grasp, Allison stared him down. After a few seconds, they began to walk through the main door without further molestation. The woman joined on Allison's other side.

The big, fancy wooden door that encompassed most of the wall opposite the entrance was actually an elevator. Bypassing all the buttons indicating the two floors above ground and the dozen or so below, the woman, who still hadn't offered Allison a name, pulled a key from her pocket and unlocked a service panel. She pressed a small button, then closed and locked the door again. The elevator began to descend.

"I still don't know what's going on." Allison eyed her two companions warily. She was already in the belly of the beast. If she fought her way out, things would be messy, and Scott would more than likely be killed. All she could do was remind herself that she was keeping him safe.

Neither acknowledged her statement, so she stepped back and leaned against the wall. She could feel the vibrations of the pulleys lowering the elevator. It was the only thing she could feel from the building that wasn't abject horror.

It took far longer than Allison was expecting for the elevator to finally reach its destination. She wasn't even sure it was possible for a building to have so many floor below ground. Surely there was bedrock or something that would've stopped construction: unless magic was at play. Allison had experience with magic. Most of the time she hated it.

"You proceed alone from here." The woman gave Allison a shove when the door to the elevator opened. "Only those who have been summoned can approach the council.

"Fucking secret societies," Allison grumbled under her breath. In all her years as a protector, she'd run across a few. They were annoying and more self-important than actual threats. This one felt different, though. This wasn't a bunch of drunk salarymen summoning a demon for shits and giggles.

This was her family.

The walk between the elevator and the auditorium, for Allison had no other word to use, was short but dark. Why didn't secret societies invest in electricity in their secret lairs? She understood pomp and circumstance, that it was all a show, but she didn't care. It was impractical.

Then a light from overhead shined down on her. It wasn't a torchlight or anything so medieval. It was an actual spotlight, and it blinded her even more than she'd been expecting.

"You are Allison Argent, yes?" A deep voice rang echoed from the darkness, and Allison couldn't place its location. It was also a feminine voice, which meant the owner was probably old. "The one from our United States branch. What is the code?"

"Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent se protéger." Allison smirked as she lowered her hand and let her eyes adjust to the light.

"Not your silly little rambling, girl. What is the code of the Argent family? The one that existed centuries before you perverted the calling your birth demanded." Another voice, this one younger and more masculine, ordered. She could not place its source, either.

Knowing that she'd already made her defiant display and that acting petulant would do her no good, Allison sighed and closed her eyes. "Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent."

"Much better," a third voice, another feminine one, complimented.

"Why the hell am I here?" Allison asked before any other demands could be made. She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness. She refused to be intimidated, though this council seemed to be putting up a less-than-stellar effort. The picture of Scott had been more menacing. "When I underwent my training, I was told nothing of a council in France."

"That is because your father is a fool." Allison recognized this voice. An old man choking on his own bile: her grandfather who had sold out everything he believed in to become a werewolf and failed. Gerard was wheeled into the light beside her. She wished he had died from his cancer. "I never should've let him..."

Gerard was unable to complete his sentence, because there was a flash of light to Allison's left and a crack immediately followed it. Her grandfather jerked to the right. He fell and took his wheelchair with him. The hole in the side of his head oozed a black substance that was anything but blood.

"I hope that loose end reminds you who is in charge," the first voice, the old woman, warned Allison. "We will not tolerate dissent or betrayal. Your family has skirted that line, but we are offering you a chance. Return to our flock and abandon those creatures with which you have surrounded yourself."

"If I don't?" Allison watched her tone. They'd just murdered her grandfather in front of her. They would not hesitate to do the same with her.

"Then we will prune your diseased and rotting branch from our family's proud tree. And we will wipe those you call friends from the face of this planet. To think, an Argent associating with werewolves, banshees, and who knows what other kinds of filth."

Allison stared into the darkness instead of her grandfather's corpse. "What assurance do I get that if I join you, they will be unharmed?"

"We swear by the code that, as long as they do not hunt others, we will not hunt them." Again, the old woman was the one leading the conversation.

"Very well, then." Allison nodded. She didn't like it, but her choices were limited. She didn't trust this council. She didn't trust her old code. But defiance would not serve her well at the moment.

TW

She had been put with a host family who spoke fluent English. The were from America, like she was, but had migrated to the homeland of their shared ancestors. The man was not an Argent by blood, but his wife was, and he'd taken on her name. They were both disabled: he had lost a leg in combat and she was stricken blind, but they had children and a spare bedroom. Allison was quite sure that if she had met them under other circumstances she would've liked them.

When her belongings had been returned to her, her phone and other electronic devices had been confiscated. They'd also taken her picture of Scott. It had been a threat, but it was all she had of him.

So, while the people she was supposed to live with showed her around their home and the small village, she plotted her escape. Being in a foreign country with no passport was no problem. She could easily get to the US Embassy and seek refuge, claiming a mugging, but that wouldn't protect her friends. Nor would it stop her suddenly extended "family" from carrying on atrocities.

She made mental notes of which houses grew which plants. Lydia and Stiles had looked into alchemy, but Danny was the one who had grown proficient at it. He'd made sure to teach everyone at least enough to not blow themselves up. Allison was glad, because she needed the opposite approach.

With every second that passed, Allison grew more and more concerned. She needed to get a hold of her father, if nobody else, because he would know something of what was happening. But she couldn't. Nobody had a phone, or at least wouldn't let her have access to a phone.

After one lone day of frustration, she put her hastily thrown together plan in action. The supernatural was most active at night, so she struck during the day. The first explosion collapsed the doorway to the council's building. The second was the vehicle depot disguised as a truck stop. When the third went off, she was slamming the head of one host into the fridge while kicking the other into the stove. She felt bad. These people didn't deserve to be attacked, but she needed their car. Allison snagged the keys from the hook on the wall and ran out the door.

A group of three had already deduced she was behind whatever had happened, and were waiting when she came out the door. Being relatively unarmed, unlike her attackers, Allison slid the keys between her fingers and shifted her stance. She didn't have time to hang around for a protracted fight.

The first man went down when she leaped off the stoop and drove her foot into his chest. The second man punched her in the head. She didn't even wait to recover, lashing out with her fist and stabbing the keys into his neck. As he reeled back, the third member of the group, fired her gun. Allison was already moving, so it missed her, but struck the first man. Then Allison disarmed the woman and smashed the butt of the pistol into her final attacker's face.

Even though they were all at best stunned, Allison ran around them and pulled open the door to the car. She fought with the keys until she found the one that fit the car. It was a stick. She hated driving stick. She also hated the people running at her stolen vehicle. Backing up, Allison heard and felt something like an arm or leg crunch under the tires. She pushed it out of her mind. There was no time. A hit had likely already been taken out on everyone in Beacon Hills. All she could do was hope that everyone was okay.

TW

When Allison had reached the relative safety of the open road, her followers long behind her, she let herself breathe. They knew she was going to Beacon Hills. She knew they knew. They had all the advantages. The only thing she had on her side was her own wit. That alone made her a threat.

So she mapped an idea of what to do next. She could still try the embassy, but she was technically a terrorist now. She had no money, and the car she was driving was hot. Sooner, rather than later, she'd have to ditch it. She just happened to get lucky that someone had left a tablet in the backseat of the car.

The village didn't have internet. It would be impossible to hack their database if nobody had a connection. Still, some of the people worked in neighbouring villages and towns and her host had been one of them. The tablet had been his. He'd mentioned that he drove his car daily, and Allison saw his prosthetic leg was still in the passenger floorboard where he'd left it after shopping. He hated the thing, and refused to bring it into the house.

Allison realized that she'd lived with the family an entire day and hadn't even bothered to remember their names.

Eventually, she pulled into a gas station that doubled as a fast food restaurant. For some reason, Allison didn't think that a country like France would have something so American, but it had free Wi-Fi. She plugged the tablet into the cigarette lighter port and powered it up. Then she downloaded Skype to the device and logged in.

She was probably giving away her location. It didn't matter. She wouldn't be staying.

"Allison?!" Lydia's face was comforting, filling up a large portion of the small screen. "What the hell are you and Scott doing in Paris? Did you bitches elope? We haven't heard from either one of you in ages! Are you okay? Where is Scott? Show me the ring!"

Scott was gone, too? Had they taken him anyway? She knew not to trust them. They already had Scott. He was probably already dead. But they would regret it. She'd make sure of it.

"How did you know where I am? Scott isn't with me, but you guys need to get out of town. Go to my dad. They're coming for you guys. They always were, but I sped up the timetable. Sorry."

"Danny hacked all flight logs out of California for me. Also, what?"

"The Argents, Lydia," Allison explained. Her voice sounded almost as tired as she felt. "They're still super active in France. Probably all around the world. But they're pissed at me and my dad for not going with the program. We're dissidents or something. I don't know. But you get your husbands and get the hell out of town. Take Isaac with you, too."

"Allison, you're not making sense. Listen, I tried to talk him out of it, just on the off chance that you guys were on a spontaneous honeymoon, but Stiles is headed your way."

“Stiles is going to Paris? But I'm not in Paris!” Allison wanted to throw the tablet. What the hell had the last 72 hours of her life become?

“Marseille, actually. It was the first flight to France he could get. He's supposed to catch a train to Paris and find you, though how the hell he was supposed to do that in a city that big is beyond me. My husband is an idiot.”

"Just leave, dammit. I can't keep you safe from here. I'll take care of Stiles. I love you guys."

Allison disconnected the call. She probably could have explained everything else, but she didn't know how far behind her the Argents were. She really didn't have the time, so she powered down the tablet and climbed out of the car. She threw the keys into the grass and looked at the other vehicles present.

There was one semi-truck. She was used to seeing so many more in America, but Europe had as lot of train activity. That was probably how they hauled everything. Still, she tried the handle on it and it opened. Then Allison looked around, decided it was safe, and climbed into the cab.

She was lucky that it was the kind of truck with a space behind the seats where someone could theoretically sleep. Curling herself into as small a ball as possible, Allison did her best to hide and wait.

It was about thirty minutes before the driver returned to his truck. He thought nothing of looking around the cab, for which Allison held a sigh of relief. Then she pressed the gun to the back of his head and tried her best to remember her French class from high school.

TW

The man slammed into the dashboard face first, and the trinkets he on top of it scattered across the floorboard and seat. Before he could recover, Allison smashed the sole of her boot into the back of his head. When she was certain he was unconscious, she apologized then reached into his back pocket.

She took his travelling money, almost a thousand euros, and snagged his phone while she was at it. It wasn't anything fancy, and Allison didn't recognize the model, but she prayed that it had international calling. It was Europe: why wouldn't someone have international calling?

Slamming the door to the semi, she looked around the darkened city. Marseille was busier than she expected. This was a good thing. The phone did not have international calling, so she threw it at the truck in frustration and ran off into the dark night. She could find a hotel with Wi-fi, get a hold of Lydia again, and see if Danny could hack into flight logs of Stiles' plane since she forgot to inquire after that very important information.

Also, it was likely the Argents expected her to return to Paris since it was the only city she knew by name. She was just lucky that the trucker was more concerned with living than trying to fight back.

“Think, Allison,” she whispered to herself as she crossed the street. There had to be something she could do. The gun was left behind in the semi. It wouldn't do her any good. In fact, if anyone saw it, she'd more than likely end up arrested. It wasn't like she had a permit for it. Besides, she worked better with rifles anyway.

The restaurant she first approached didn't have Wi-Fi, but the hotel across the street did. So she decided to get room service as she gathered intelligence. It had been a long day.

“You're back,” Lydia said when Allison contacted her again. Danny was in the background, but ran to the screen the moment he heard Lydia speak.

“You haven't left.” Allison scratched at her hairline with her free hand. On the one hand, she was mad they were still in Beacon Hills, but on the other she needed their help.

“No, we haven't left,” Danny confirmed, making Lydia pout. It was obvious she had wanted to speak. “The moment Stiles found out you were in France, he kinda booked a last minute flight without telling us. He's headed your way.”

“Yeah, I know. Lydia told me. He's also a big glowing target on the Argent family radar. As are you two. Did you at least call my dad? You should probably call my dad. He can help you guys go underground. Just until things blow over.”

“Do you know which gate Stiles is gonna land at? It's the Marseille Provence Airport, right?” Allison blinked heavily. She wanted to sleep, but now she couldn't. “I'll meet him there.”

“But you just told us that there is a family full of people trained in how to kill werewolves and other nasty things coming after my husband,” Danny yelled at the screen. Lydia held a comforting hand to his face and he apologized.

“They know he's coming, don't they?” Lydia has tears in her eyes. “Allison, just bring him home to me. Nobody gets to kill his stupid ass except for me.”

Smiling, even though she didn't feel it, Allison agreed. “Lydia, Danny, I promise that I'll do what I can to keep Stiles safe. Now which gate is it?”

Danny grinned and tapped at the keyboard. Allison could see them, but she doubted they could see her. He'd probably opened up a web browser or something. She waited for about five minutes, watching Lydia and Danny stare at something she couldn't see and mumble things she could only half hear.

“He's actually coming in at the Marseille Provence Airport. It's about twenty miles from where you are. Which is about 32 kilometres, if you wanna be all local about it,” Danny explained. Allison almost asked how he knew where she was, but then decided that she wouldn't understand the explanation anyway. “He's scheduled to land in five hours.”

“Which means I have to be there in four,” Allison nodded as she ruminated. Then she repeated herself for what seemed like the third time. “Which gate?”

TW

It took everything Allison had to not kick Stiles' head in. Everyone else was running away from the gunshot, and he was just standing there.

“MOVE!” she yelled as she grabbed his arm and threw him behind a pillar. She then dove in the opposite direction as another bullet slammed into a chair. The Argents must have been really pissed to actually commit an act of terrorism on an airport. At least it meant they were acting stupidly. That meant she could get away, and the angle of the places the bullets impacted told her where the shooter was.

“This is NOT in the travel guide!” Stiles told Allison when she joined him. Instead of replying, she mapped out their route of escape, and possible alternate routes.

When she'd made her decision, Allison thrust a hand out to the right side of the pole, waved it about, then bolted to the left with Stiles in tow. It was a minor diversion, possibly not even one that worked, but it threw the sniper off for a second and they would need every second they could get.

“These things hate me,” Stiles told Allison when they crouched behind a vending machine. “One even tried to kill me once.”

“And now someone with a gun is trying to kill the both of us. So, if you don't mind, shut the hell up.”

“Why is there even a sniper targeting us? In an airport?” Stiles never did listen when someone told him to be quiet.

The glass was likely bulletproof. Allison wasn't sure, but she went with the assumption that it was. Even if they did get outside, that didn't mean they would get away. There were bound to be cops, or Interpol, or some other law enforcement agency waiting outside. And Allison couldn't even think of a good lie to tell anyone that would ask.

Also, they'd sat still too long. The shooter had ample opportunity to get a new angle, and they needed to move.

“I hate flying.” Allison pointed Stiles to the nearby bathroom. He looked at her, confused, but then nodded as he understood. If they could get out of the open, then they wouldn't have to worry about being shot. There were other concerns, but they were less likely. “GO!”

Stiles ran for the bathroom while Allison ran in the opposite direction. He didn't even realize until he'd burst through the doorway and yelled for her. A bullet slammed through the open door and missed his head by inches, so he stopped yelling and disappeared into the facility.

And because the shooter had gone after Stiles, it meant he or she had yet to refocus on Allison. There was also only one shooter, because if there were multiple both targets would have already been dead.

The cat and mouse game continued, with Allison darting from cover to cover, barely outmanoeuvring the gunman. She'd already picked up on where the shooter was located: a perch on a far wall that was probably used for hanging decorations or maintenance. She didn't know and it wasn't important. What was important was the shooter firing less often. He or she hadn't planned on it being a drawn out affair and hadn't packed a lot of ammunition.

After a few minutes, the conflict ended because a SWAT team, or whatever the French equivalent was, stormed into the building. Allison looked over her shoulder and saw that the small overhang was clear. Whoever was shooting at her had decided to split.

She'd never been the best actress, so Allison slammed her knee into a nearby wall to get her eyes to water. It caught the attention of one of the officers. He ran to her and starting asking questions in French.

“American,” she said to him in a broken and confused sob. “English.”

He waved somebody else, another man, over. They exchanged a few words in French, then he started talking to Allison in a British accent. “Why didn't you run when everyone else did?”

“I-I was trapped! And m-my f-f-f-friend. Where is h-he?” Allison clung to the first man and looked around. Someone was pulling Stiles out of the bathroom, and several others were still sweeping the airport. “STILES!”

At first, Stiles looked scared, then confused when he saw Allison on the verge of hysterics. She ran from the police, trying to keep her sore knee from slowing her down, and threw her arms around him. They collapsed to the floor.

“Play along,” she whispered in his ear. Then she started sobbing into his shoulder and he awkwardly put his arms around her.

“Madame, this is your friend?” The officer with the British accent knelt next to them. He looked over to Stiles. “What are your names?”

Allison wailed as Stiles gave his to the officer, then told them Allison's. Nobody blinked at it. She supposed that was good.

“I was mugged the other day. Lost all m-my money. And my passport. S-Stiles came here to help me get home. I j-just wanted to visit France!” Allison reigned the tears and crying in a bit, but held onto Stiles with an iron grip. “Now I just wanna go home.”

The officer gave them sympathetic smiles and said something to his fellow cops. He helped Allison to her feet, supporting her until Stiles could, then helped them out of the building and questioned them the entire way. Stiles didn't say much, Allison running over everything with half-answers and her own inane questions.

“If you'll wait here, someone will be over to take an official statement,” the officer told Allison with a comforting smile as they stopped by a police vehicle. Then he looked at Stiles. “Take care of her.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles nodded as he held Allison close.

The moment the officer was out of sight, Allison grabbed Stiles by the arm and started to briskly walk away. Running would attract too much attention, but even though the police had her name she couldn't stay. She was out in the open again and the shooter would undoubtedly still be after them. He or she had attacked in a crowded airport. It wasn't unthinkable that being outside would make them any safer.

Allison hailed down a cab and handed the man a hundred euros and told him the name of her hotel. He didn't even look twice at them.

“Do you speak English?” she asked the driver, and he said something back in French before shaking his head. “Thanks, anyway.”

“What the hell was that?” Stiles asked Allison, a bit of panic still in his voice. “Where are we going?”

“We're going to my hotel, and I'll tell you the rest later.”

“Where is Scott? I thought he'd be with you.”

“Lydia didn't text you or something? Scott isn't here. I... I don't know where he is.” Allison quieted herself as she thought about Scott. She hadn't really thought about Scott, there were other matters vying for her attention.

“The stewardess, or are they called flight attendants now? Anyway, she made me shut my phone off before we could fly. And when I turned it back on, I couldn't receive calls or texts. My carrier sucks.” Stiles started to ramble and Allison let him.

It was hard enough when she thought she just had to take care of herself in a strange country where she had no money and didn't know the language, but now she had Stiles. And Scott was still missing. Not to mention that lots of very angry and dangerous people wanted her dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever he thought about New Orleans, all Scott had been able to come up with was jazz music and Mardi Gras. Seeing it in person was something else entirely.

People actually stood on street corners playing music. Some had places for tips, others didn't. A woman propositioned him, and when he turned her down a man made a similar offer. People of every colour milled about the streets. Some were drunk and celebrating, others were just passing by on their way home or to work. The one thing the city wasn't was dead.

A damn hurricane had tried to wash the streets clean and the people of New Orleans refused it. Even though he couldn't get into the charm shop or wherever it was Braeden was shopping, Scott didn't care. He hated magic, but it was the definition of New Orleans. And it made him smile.

"Did you make that call yet, Scarecrow?" Braeden put a hand on Scott's shoulder to get his attention. He turned away from the woman dancing in a fountain and looked at his companion. Her glamour was back up, but it was different. She still had her nose, but long gashes ran down her neck. He half wondered if he had actually ever seen her true face.

"Did you get what you needed?" Scott knew she wold notice his non answer. Braeden had a way of picking up on things. He didn't care. There were still unanswered phone calls, voice mails that were disregarded. Both Danny and Lydia had called him the night before and he hadn't listened. He wanted to, but he still wasn't ready.

She sighed and opened her bag for him, but the smell made him stumble back. "This isn't going to be pretty. And there will probably be deaths. Someone always dies when I come to this city." Braeden didn't look particularly sad, but Scott could smell it on her. She was trying to hide it but it didn't matter. "New Orleans is like nowhere else on Earth."

"I noticed that." Scott held a hand out to the people of the city. "You still haven't told me why we're here."

"You're here because you decided you wanted to be my conscience. I'm here because I'm needed. Someone is always needed here. The loa and demons and other spirits love it. People live, people die, but magic is in everything. If you see a playing card on the ground? It has magic.

"And magic is why I needed to come. I was running low on supplies, and you can find everything here. And what you can't find will find you."

"Is there some reason other than shopping that we came? Something I can do to help someone?"

Braeden gave Scott a mischievous smile. "Ever the hero, aren't you? Fine, yes, there is another reason we're here. Someone is literally raising Hell. It's fairly normal, all things considered, but this time they made a mistake."

Scott didn't ask her what the mistake was. He just looked into her eyes, searching for what she would say. He wanted to see the life in her that was in everything else in the city. He couldn't find it.

"There's some place we need to go, but I have to give you something first." Braeden placed something around his neck: small cloth bag on a string. It smelled strongly of rose water. "It's a Gris-gris. A talisman, if you will. They ward off evil spirits, amongst other things. You've never been here before. You need all the protection you can get."

"What about you?" Scott felt the pouch. There were stones, or something resembling stones, in it. "Did you have one?"

"I don't want one." Braeden sat on the seat of Scott's motorcycle and stared at him. "We have somewhere to be. Do you mind?"

TW

While he'd been expecting a plantation, or a cabin in the bayou, Scott wasn't disappointed by the worn out and waterlogged old theatre. Only half the name from the last movie remained on the marquee. He couldn't even begin to guess as to what it was.

Braeden tested the entrance and found it locked, then looked to Scott. He shrugged, then pushed it open. The door only popped slightly out of its frame. He stepped inside, then held the door open for his travelling companion. She brushed past without actually looking at him.

"So, are we meeting somebody here?" Scott tried to ignore the smell of mold that permeated the air inside the building. He shut the door and checked to make sure nobody was near his bike. "This is kind of an unusual place to pick."

"We're not meeting anyone here. He's meeting us here, because he can't go anywhere else." Braeden ignored Scott's followup questions. She reached into her bag and pulled out things Scott had smelled but didn't think she'd actually bought.

Chicken bones were scattered on the filthy floor. Scott stood back and watched as Braeden threw some sort of powder and herbs onto the remains. Then she pulled her knife from her pocket and ran the blade across the palm of her hand.

“Shit!” Scott ran to Braeden's side and reached for the knife, but she jerked it out of his reach and slammed her forehead into his. He backed up, not really in pain, and gave her distance. Not even paying further attention to him, Braeden closed her knife and put it back into her pocket. She held her injured hand over the paraphernalia and let the blood drip onto it.

At first, nothing happened, so Braeden dug her nails into the shallow cut and ripped it open even wider. Blood flowed down to her wrist before dripping off and pooling into the middle of the pile of bones. As the pool turned into a puddle, Scott smelled something else hit air. It reeked like the time they added sulphur to the water back in Beacon Hills after it had been contaminated in a fracking incident.

Then a burst of fire erupted in the floor and rose to the ceiling. Scott made to pull Braeden away, but he stopped when he saw someone in the flames: someone who wasn't burning.

“James.” Braeden held her injured hand inches from the fire, and Scott realized that he didn't feel any heat. The fire wasn't spreading. It was held in place by the bones, which had rearranged themselves into a circle. “It's me again.”

“Braeden?” The man looked like he had recently been in pain, and didn't know how to react now that he wasn't. His white skin was covered in sweat and soot. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“I'm sorry. It won't last. You know it won't. But I need your help. Someone is trying to open a portal to Hell again.”

“Isn't that what this is?”

The man, James, and Braeden both looked at Scott, but he spoke. “Is he...”

“Not even a friend. We just met. He's helping me,” Braeden explained. She lied. Scott could hear it in her heartbeat. “This isn't a portal to Hell, Scarecrow. It's more... it's more of a phone call. Nothing can cross back and forth between us. All it can do is distract him long enough to help us.”

“James.” The man didn't wave or anything. He just nodded in Scott's direction.

“Scott.”

“Shut up,” Braeden snapped at the both of them. “James, they took your skeleton. Whoever it is, they know what I did. And I'm going to kill the bastards. Do you know anything being plotted on your end?”

“I'm sorry.” James shook his head sadly. “It's all kind of. I never know what's happening. There is too much... I just don't know.”

“I love you.” Braeden held up her other hand. James matched them with his own. Uncomfortable, Scott looked at the not-scorched ceiling.

“You're all that gets me through this.” James' voice began to break. “I don't wanna go back. Please, just let me stay here until they burn out. You don't know what it's like. I never want you to know what it's like.”

“I'm so sorry.” Braeden was on the edge of a sob. “I'll get you back. I don't care what it takes.”

“Don't you dare. Braeden, you know you shouldn't. If you do, I'll have died for nothing. We'll be right back where we were. Worse, probably.”

“I love you,” Braeden repeated. Scott finally looked up at her. There were tears in her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall. “I have to go, but I'll see you again.”

She lowered her hands and looked away from James, wiping at her eyes. Scott wanted to say something to at least one of them, but his voice didn't work. It was just as well. He offered James an apologetic smile, then followed Braeden out of the theatre.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked the moment the door to the theatre closed. “Do you need to talk?”

“Just shut up. I'm not in the mood. Not now.” Braeden didn't look at Scott. She didn't need to: he could smell the salt from her tears and hear the small choking noises she made before she spoke.

Walking over to his bike, Scott idly wondered if anyone ever actually would mess with it. “I just want you to know I'm here if you need anything.”

“I need you to make that damn phone call. Stay out of my business until you do,” the woman spat venomously.

TW

They ran across the city, seeking out occult shops and people with knowledge, but they had no leads on what was happening. Braeden also refused to tell him what was happening or why it was so important to her. He knew she loved that guy, that James, and that he was dead and apparently in hell. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

Scott was Catholic. He only went to Mass on Christmas and Easter, but he still believed in God and an afterlife. When it came to being a werewolf and having other friends who were supernatural and magic being real, it actually strengthened his belief. If he could exist just by being bitten, then surely a higher power existed as well.

So it unnerved Scott that Braeden was involved in a demonic black market of sorts. She knew where shops existed that claimed to sell things that made his skin crawl. Not all of them barred him entry. In fact, the more insidious ones picked up on what he was immediately and showed great interest in Scott until Braeden warned them off.

After the seventh shop, Scott finally refused to take her to the next one until he knew what was going on.

“Did you not hear me talking to James?” she shot at Scott as she leaned against a darkened light pole. Night was starting to fall, but it wasn't quite dim enough yet for the sensors to turn the light on.

“I was there, but I don't even have half of the story. And I want to help, but you treat me like a walking inconvenience. And you're the one who asked me to bring you out here. I could've left you somewhere in Texas, but I didn't.”

“Because you are a good person. You go out of your way to help people because it's the right thing to do. You want to try to save every life you can. I don't. If someone needs stopped, I'll do it permanently. Some people don't deserve a second chance.” Braeden looked into Scott's eyes, but he couldn't read her.

He licked his lips and crossed his arms. “Is that why you're so angry? You got a second chance you don't think you deserve?”

“Fuck you.”

“No. I'm right, aren't I? You and that guy, James, you two did something and he died. And you're trying to fix your karmic balance or something but you don't really want to be a better person. How far off am I?” Scott leaned forward and looked up at Braeden's face. It was still unreadable, but her heart was racing.

“James didn't die. I killed him.” Her heartbeat slowed. She wasn't lying. “Years ago, after I saved your friend, that white kid, I murdered the love of my life and guaranteed him a spot in the fiery afterlife. So, yeah, my karma is shit and so are you.”

Scott wasn't outraged by what she said. He wasn't even shocked. If anything, he was apologetic. “I'm so sorry. That must be horrible for both of you. I just... I want to help you.”

“You can help by shutting the hell up. There are a few more places we can try before I have to hit up the seedy part of town.”

“This isn't the seedy part of town?!” Braeden shot him another of her patented death glares. “Right, shutting up. Sorry.”

TW

It wasn't until they hit up a third cult compound that they got a lead. Two of the female members had been having ritual sex in the graveyard where James had been buried, and both had seen his exhumation. One of the women detailed the image of a couple of white people, a middle-aged man and a woman in her twenties, digging in the ground with their bare hands. She insisted that they were actually claws. The other woman mentioned that their eyes seemed to glow an electric blue and a deep gold.

“Werewolves,” Scott said to Braeden as they walked out of the compound. “Werewolves have James' body? But who? Why?”

“I come from a family druids who acted as mediators. You know that, Scarecrow. But James wasn't a part of that life. I had... I had already moved on when I met him. I don't think I ever introduced him to any werewolves. Everything we came across died.”

Scott stopped and stared at Braeden's back. She continued a few steps, then turned her head and looked at him

“Would you have killed me?”

She narrowed her eyes, but gave away nothing else. “Scarecrow, I only kill things that need killed. You're a fucking boyscout. Trust me, you'd have been fine.”

“Is there something to the way James died that would make him important? How did you even know something was happening?” Scott knew she'd get mad again, but she was always mad.

To his surprise, she didn't. Her expression didn't change, but the air around them grew melancholy. Braeden looked to the ground, took a few more steps away from Scott, then looked back up at him. He made sure no cult members were listening in on their conversation. It was a private moment.

“We had just broken up a cult. It was one not unlike this, except they were competent. You had to have run into a few of them yourself.”

Scott nodded. Ever since they had activated the Nemeton when he was in high school, the town had become a literal beacon for the supernatural and the undead. While he'd never been to New Orleans before, he had encountered voodoo. Maybe Danny and his alchemy would come in handy for this trip. That would involve talking to someone from home, though. He still wasn't ready.

“But even though they were all dead, they'd already opened a portal to Hell, or some place like it. I'm not much for religion, but it took a sacrifice to open it and one to close it. James didn't even know. I had no choice, but it doesn't matter. I should have done something else. I should have killed someone else.”

“He doesn't seem to blame you,” Scott offered as he took a tentative step toward the woman. “I saw him look at you back in the theatre. He still loves you. Something tells me he would die a million more times for you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Braeden gave a small laugh as tears started to slide down her cheeks. She wiped at them, but more fell and she could keep up. “Fuck it. It doesn't matter that he died. It matters that I killed him. I didn't even tell him that I loved him. I didn't tell him goodbye. I slit his throat from behind and threw him into hellfire. And I loved him.”

Scott took another step and Braeden didn't move. “So you think that, since you used James to close a portal to Hell, someone else is going to use his remains to try to open a new one? And it's a couple of werewolves doing it? But why? And how did you know to come here?”

“Save a little something for the honeymoon.” Braeden smiled grimly and shook her head. “I don't have all of the answers. If I did, I wouldn't be running around one of the poorest cities in America begging people for information. But we have a lead. Now I really do need your help: as more than a taxi.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“For starters, and I was hoping to avoid this, we need to go to James' grave.”

TW

The moment they saw the empty casket, Braeden went stiff. And Scott knew immediately who had the body, but he couldn't believe it. She stared at the wooden Star of David mounted on a pike. It had been knocked to the ground as the casket was broken open. They hadn't even bother to lifted it out of the ground. The lid was still secured, and they'd broken open the top to get to the bones.

While Braeden reflected, Scott inhaled. The trail was days old, and his memories even older, but he knew both scents. One he hadn't smelled since he was sixteen, maybe seventeen. The other was more fresh. Not regular, but not uncommon in his current life.

“How do you know Peter Hale?” Scott picked up a handful of dirt and let it fall onto the half-buried coffin. “Do you know his niece, Cora? Why would they want to open a door to Hell?”

Braeden looked up from the six-pointed star and seemed to study Scott's face. Several seconds passed before she answered. “I rescued him once, years ago, but he never knew James. I don't think I ever met this niece of his. So no, I have no idea why they would want his body. But now that I have a name and a face, it'll be that much easier to kill the bastards.”

“We don't even know why they have James' body!” Scott reminded Braeden before she got too excited. “They're all over the site, they couldn't cover that, but this is the only place I can smell them. There is no way to find out where they are.”

“Scarecrow, this is New Orleans. There is magic in everything. All you need is to believe it, and it'll happen,” Braeden lectured. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a container of black powder. “Sorry, you're going to want to stand back. Cover your mouth, too.”

With one puff, the mountain ash settled over the grave site. Braeden got close and examined it where Scott looked on from several feet back. “They went North. I don't know if they kept going in that direction, but it's a start.” Braeden looked back at Scott's confused face and shrugged. “My brother and sister are fairly old school in the arts. I'm experimental. Sue me. It works.”

“How do you know which way they went?” Scott lowered his shirt from the front of his face. “I don't get it.”

“Because I asked it to avoid where they'd touched. I told you, just believe it'll work, and it will. Now let's go. This night is still young, and you don't to be in a cemetery too long.”

“I think I can find out where they are.” Scott sighed and hung his head.

TW

As hard as he tried, Scott couldn't make the call. Braeden sat for about ten minutes, fidgeting and watching him stare at his phone. Then she busied herself with a map of the city.

Scrolling through his contacts, Scott stared at Stiles' number, then swiped a finger across the screen and looked at Allison's. He pressed on her name and her picture came up. It was getting easier to not think of her: to not associate her name or her face with absolutely everything in the world. But when she did cross his mind, everything stopped. He couldn't breathe. His stomach tightened and his heart barely found a way to stay in his chest.

He still had no answers. Not even a hint of a clue. Sure, maybe one his friends knew something. But their calls had become less frequent. It was almost as though they were starting to give up on him. Scott didn't know how to feel about that. All he knew was that he needed to call home and ask for help. They were always there to help him. The only problem was that his thumb would not start the call.

“Got him,” Braeden called as she circled something on her map with a red permanent marker. She looked up at Scott, and he looked away from his phone. He looked away from Allison.

“How?”

She held up a necklace with a hanging stone. “Scrying. It's more of a witch thing. It's really easy for them, but I'm not a witch.”

“You're a druid.”

“Right.” Braeden nodded as she hung the necklace around her neck, then tucked it beneath her shirt. “Right. And scrying isn't like a summoning. Not everyone can do it. But I thought I'd give it a try since you're having performance issues. Lucky for us, I don't have that problem.”

“Not funny,” Scott chided. Braeden disagreed.

“It's very funny. But sooner or later, you have to make that call. It can't be that bad, Scarecrow. Trust me, I know bad. Shit, I'm one of the worst people alive. So listen to my words of wisdom: make the call. You don't even have to tell me what it's about. I barely even care, to be honest. Just get your head in the game. We've gotta get there before they take off.”

TW

The door exploded off the hinges. Scott didn't even wait for Braeden to follow. He charged into the old, rundown bar. It looked like it hadn't been open in years, maybe since Katrina, but Cora still faced him. She growled and narrowed her yellow eyes. Then, before she could attack, she fell.

Braeden was already loading a new tranquilizer into her gun when Scott looked back at her. He wondered where she managed to keep all these things, then closed his eyes and inhaled. Peter was still there. Somewhere.

“COME OUT!” Scott roared, stomping the wood floor.

Ever the coward, Peter eventually surfaced with his hands in the air. He looked a little shocked to see Scott, but he just nodded to Braeden. “I see you got my call.”

“We're not doing it.” Braeden stepped past Scott and held the gun at Peter's chest. “He's going to stay here. The only one going to hell is you.”

Peter tapped his chin and nodded. “I was hoping you were a woman of your word. I did my part and you're reneging. Poor form, Ms. Morrell.”

“Ms. Morrell is my sister.” Braeden fired, but Peter was already moving. He ducked under the dart and batted Braeden's weapon from her hand. Then he reached for her throat, but Scott caught his wrist. Then he broke it.

Peter crouched in pain, but didn't beg to be released. Scott let him go anyway and stepped between the other two. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Peter.

“She was going to kill you, you know. The moment she knew who you were, she called me. We've kept in contact all these years. You can't trust her.”

“She never told me that I could trust her. Quite the opposite, in fact. And repeatedly. I'm not a complete idiot, Peter. Braeden was going to use me as a sacrifice to get James back, and you were going to become and alpha again. I knew something was up the second I caught your scent in that graveyard. The world isn't that small.”

With nothing to say, Peter just nursed his wrist and eyeballed Braeden.

Putting a hand on Scott's shoulder, Braeden apologized. “I knew Peter knew how to come back from the dead. I've asked him to help me before, but I never had anything he wanted.”

“And then you got me.” Scott blinked at Braeden, then looked past her to Cora. “Is she going to be fine?”

“She's alive.” Braeden shrugged, then looked off to the side. “I'm sorry, Scarecrow. I couldn't do it. After we... After all you did to help me, after talking to James, I couldn't. He didn't know anything about it. He wouldn't want it. He was like you. He's good.”

“And you're like me.” Peter smirked at Braeden and tested his now healed wrist. “You can pretend all you like, but we both know you're a killer. The monster lies just beneath your skin. You love the killing; the rush of it all. It's why you've become a blood knight. Not out of some sense of morality, but because you get a thrill out of watching people die.”

“Damn straight.” Braeden pushed Scott out of the way and kicked Peter in the face. She had already pulled a knife, a proper combat knife, from her jacket when Scott blocked her strike.

She released the handle and Scott stumbled into her. He pulled the blade from his shoulder and let it fall to the floor. Peter looked up at Scott, smiled, then struck. His claws were already well into Scott's chest by the time Braeden had the mountain ash in his face.

With a wave of her hand, the black powder encircled Peter and trapped him. Braeden helped Scott stand and walked him to the bar so he could lean against it.

“Are you okay?” Braeden asked Scott as she tore off her jacket and held it to the bloody wound on his chest. “Come on, Scarecrow. You're gonna be fine, right?”

“Already healing,” he coughed with a smile. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem. Just give me a couple minutes to tie up some loose ends.” She looked at the knife on the floor, then to Peter who sat in the small circle and smiled.

“Don't.” Scott reached out and touched Braeden. He didn't grab her, just let his fingers linger against her shirt. “He's not worth it. Just let him sit there and rot. Let's get out of here.”

“But James...” Braeden started to protest. She then caught herself and stopped. “Never mind. You're right. Let's go. I heard one of the cults talking about something in the swamp eating children or whatever.”

Peter started to say something to them, but Braeden hit him with her stun gun.

“What? I left him alive?”

TW

Braeden sat on the bike, watching Scott as he finally called home. Stiles didn't answer, so he tried Lydia next.

“Scott?” She practically screamed into the phone, and he had to wince as he held it from his head. “Where the hell have you been? We've been calling you for days. This had better be you, Scott, or I swear to god I will kill whoever stole your phone.”

“Hi, Lydia,” he sighed. His chest felt like it was on fire, but his stomach was ice cold. His brain was caught in a fog and nothing made sense. “I'm sorry I scared you, but I had to leave. I... Allison left.”

“We know, Stiles is with her. Or he should be. But why the hell aren't you? Her fucking family goes insane and you run off? Fuck you, Scott!” Lydia was still yelling, even as someone else clearly took the phone away.

“Scott? It's you isn't it?” Danny's voice was just as angry, but nowhere near as loud. Scott took it.

Looking to Braeden for guidance, she just shrugged and picked at the dirt under her fingernails with her pocket knife.

“Yeah, it is. Hi, Danny. How's my favourite brother-in-law doing?” Scott jerked his chin to one side as he waited for whatever lecture was coming.

“Listen, Scott, I don't know why you left, and I don't really care, but you need to come home. The Argents are on the warpath. The ones that stayed behind in France when Allison's ancestors came to America or whatever. They're after Allison. I guess she blew them up or something. Stiles is with her.”

Scott dropped his phone. The back flew off and the battery skidded across the parking lot. Concerned, Braeden hopped off the bike and ran to him. “What is it? What happened?”

“We're going back to California. The swamp creature is gonna have to wait.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was all Allison could do to disappear from France. While she and Stiles had managed to get to England, it cost the last of her stolen funds to bribe her way onto a ship trading spices or silk. They were hauling something. Just what it was, she wasn't sure, as she and Stiles spent two days in an empty crate. The crate was so small Allison was afraid she'd wind up pregnant.

She wondered for a moment if this was how most people who fled to America arrived: cold, tired, hungry, and poor. Did the people know that when they came to America they'd be demonized and spat upon? They were lucky, Allison and Stiles: they could speak the language of the country they were going to and go home.

Well, they could go home in theory.

"I hate Jackson. Why did you think he would help us? He was a selfish asshole in high school, and he's one now." Stiles continued to complain as he and Allison wandered the streets of London. She thought it had always rained in England. She had lived in Seattle for a year when she was in middle school; it was always wet. Their first night in Britain was a dry one.

"I was hoping that he'd grown up," she answered when Stiles stopped talking long enough to take a breath. "Besides, we don't know anyone else here and, if you haven't noticed, we have no money."

"But to even refuse to see us?" Stiles started complaining again and Allison tuned him out.

It wasn't even Jackson at fault for their situation: it was her fault that Stiles was in danger, that they all were, but she was doing everything she could to fix it. Or, at the very least, she was doing what she could to keep her head above water. Nobody she knew had died yet. Someone had died at the airport from a stray shot. People had probably been killed, or at least severely injured, during her escape from the Argent compound, but she didn't know their names. She didn't have to dwell on them. She could convince herself that they weren't real people. Not every night, but she was sure one day it would happen.

Much to Stiles' disgust, Allison got them dinner from a dumpster behind an Italian restaurant. Before the owner or an employee could see them, she'd already made off with a couple loaves of half-eaten garlic bread. Even though her loaf was cold and had lipstick smeared on the edge, Allison bit into it anyway. She was pragmatic if nothing else.

Stiles had snatched a woman's purse when she was waiting on a bus. Neither he nor Allison felt good about it, but they rationalized it away as they emptied the wallet inside of all coins and bills, then dumped it behind the woman before she realized it was missing.

They used the meagre funds they'd stolen to pay for a night a what was possibly the seediest motel in Europe. While Allison tried to steal internet access from nearby businesses, Stiles counted cockroaches on the ceiling.

She managed to get a connection on the tablet, but it was too unstable to get a video chat running. She emailed Lydia a picture of Stiles. Before they'd left France, Allison had let Stiles talk to his spouses. While Lydia yelled at him for being stupid, Danny let them know that he'd put up safety measures around his computer so the Argents couldn't find them while they were in hiding. He even uploaded a program to Allison's tablet that encrypted any files she sent or received. It was meant to keep anyone else from figuring out where they originated from or what they said. In reality, it meant Stiles had to do almost everything on it for her. Allison wanted to hit something.

"Danny has a plan," Stiles told Allison as she tried to pretend that her stomach wasn't cramping. She'd managed to steal some tampons from a convenience store, but she didn't want to push her luck. Her karma was low enough already. The last thing she needed was to push it over the tipping point for relief from bloating.

"Does it involve soap?" She wrinkled her nose at one of the bugs crawling across the mouldy windowsill. "I would kill for a proper shower."

"The room came with a shower."

Allison groaned as she remembered the black water that poured out of the shower head. Being filthy made her feel cleaner by comparison.

“What's the plan? Are they sending us money? How would we even pick it up? And don't tell me shit about bitcoins, because I have no idea how those work and neither do you.” Allison flopped back onto the bed. Her fingernails bit into her palms as she tried to not bite her friend's head off.

“Actually, he chartered us a ride home. Not in a jet or anything, but on a cruise ship. Paid for it with Jackson's credit card. I guess he was mad his best friend from high school refused to come to his wedding.” Stiles grinned as he stroked the tablet lovingly.

“You married Jackson's best friend and his ex-girlfriend in a polyamorous ceremony. You hate him and he hates you. Did you forget that you can Danny almost ended the engagement over even inviting him until Lydia smacked some sense the both of you?”

“Good times.” Looking over to Allison, Stiles let his smile falter. “They finally heard from Scott. It was a quick phone call, but they think he's headed back to Beacon Hills. I guess he said you left him?”

Again, Allison remembered the pain on Scott's face. She could still hear him crying, begging her to stay. It didn't matter what else was said. If she'd told him why she was leaving he would have insisted on coming. All that mattered was that Scott was alive. He could hate her for eternity for lying. She would cry, she would lean on her friends for support, but she wouldn't regret what she did.

“So they didn't get to him,” she whispered in a quiet and broken voice. Sitting up, she looked out the window.

Setting the tablet down on the bed, Stiles scooted closer to Allison and enveloped her with his arms. He rocked her back and forth, brushing the hair from her face and kissing her temple.

“Hey, it's okay. When Scott finds out about your family, and why you left, he'll understand. You guys are the fucking rock.” Stiles held Allison's hands and smiled against the side of her face.

“You think so? I wrecked him, Stiles. This wasn't like when we were in school and I dumped him. This was acrimonious: I was a real bitch. I had to be one.” As hard as she tried not to cry, Allison couldn't stop the tears from falling. “I don't want to talk about Scott.”

“We don't have to. You wanna go to sleep? We can go to sleep.”

Nodding, Allison crawled under the covers with Stiles and let him hold her as she cried.

TW

“Take a cruise home. They'll never think of that.” Stiles groaned as he hid in the corner wielding a mop. Allison shut him up with a look. She didn't have the time or the energy to deal with him.

“God, they're relentless. Posing as pirates to invade the ship?” Allison shoved a table against the door of their cabin and double checked that it was locked.

She rummaged through the cabin looking for a weapon, or something she could use as one. When she came up empty, Allison held her hand out to Stiles.

“How do you know they aren't actual pirates?” Stiles handed the mop over reluctantly. She didn't even want to know why he had one in their room to begin with. “I mean, we're near the Horn of Africa and Somalia has a history of pirates.”

“Stiles, these people are white. And I don't want to sound racist, but most of the people who live in Somalia are not white. I knew this cruise was too good to be true. Three weeks on the water without having to even think of people wanting my head. Why are they even putting all of this effort into finding one person? I'm not important.”

“You blew up their headquarters, Allison. I can see why they'd chase you across the world. They're proving a point.”

“I got the point when they shot up an airport in France just to get to you.” Allison finally got the mop head off the handle, then gave the wooden shaft a test shake. “You know that this isn't going to be resolved peacefully, right?”

Nodding his head, Stiles rose to his feet. She felt bad for him. He hadn't spoken to his wife or husband in weeks. There was no Wi-Fi on the ship and all they could do was talk to each other. Everyone else on the cruise was there to enjoy themselves. Now, they would likely die and it would be her fault.

Breaking a leg off the table, Allison tossed it to Stiles. There was no point in telling him to stay behind. They'd check the rooms eventually. Stiles had become a lot more adept at field work than he was as a teen, but he still wasn't built for combat. He was actually safer with her than without. Besides, he never listened when people told him to stay behind.

“Stay behind me. If you get shot, Lydia will never let me hear the end of it.”

“What about Danny?”

Smirking Allison shoved the table out of the way. “I can always punch Danny. Lydia needs a softer touch.”

She leaned back out of the path of fire when she opened the door. Nothing happened, so she stuck the edge of the mop handle out and didn't even hear boots on the carpet. It was at times like these that Allison really wanted a werewolf to help out.

“We are so skipping China and going straight to the California destination,” Allison muttered to nobody as she eased herself out of the cabin and into the hallway. She kept one hand tight on the makeshift staff and held Stiles' hand with the other.

The first hallway was empty. Gunshots rang out from nearby and Allison squeezed Stiles' hand to keep him calm. Turning the corner, she saw two men: one opening doors and the other firing into rooms with a shotgun. It looked to be automatic, but from a distance Allison couldn't be sure.

When she got up close and was crushing the man's windpipe with her mop handle, she was certain that it was an automatic shotgun. When she heard and felt the larynx collapse, she released him. The other man was handily beating the crap out of Stiles. He was sporting a small handgun and had it trained on her friend when Allison threw her weapon at his hands.

Clattering to the floor, the gun went off and the bullet struck the wall and ricocheted. Allison kicked up at him, but the man fell back and pushed her foot away. With the loss of her balance, Allison fell onto her backside. Then she grabbed at the shotgun and fired.

The kickback felt like it broke her shoulder. Her attacker sprayed against the wall and Allison carefully set the gun down. She helped Stiles up, then looked at the man on the floor trying and failing to breathe.

“I totally had him on the ropes,” Stiles bragged as he winced under his injuries. Then he turned and looked into the cabin. Allison followed suit and saw a man and two small children. “Are you guys okay?”

“Here,” Allison picked the shotgun back up and handed it to the man. “You know how to work this thing?”

“My ex-wife is a member of the NRA. I learned a few things.” The terror in his voice was evident. His children were practically catatonic, and Allison felt horrible. She'd brought this devastation to these people. Everyone that died did so as a direct result of her actions.

“Do not leave this cabin for anything. Have your kids hide in the bathroom.” Allison didn't know if he paid attention to her orders, because she gave them on her way out. She retrieved her mop handle, then directed Stiles to take the dead man's handgun. The first man was still having spasms. “They have to be coming this way soon.”

“So what do we do?” Stiles was feeling around the remains of the man Allison shot for extra ammo. He found a couple of clips and slid them into his pockets. It wasn't ideal, but they would make do. “I mean, there are, what, twenty of them or so?”

“Eighteen now.” Allison broke the neck of the man suffering. His lifeless head fell to the floor and she let her eyes linger on it a little longer than she should have. When she looked up, Stiles was looking at her. “I'm fine.”

He licked his lips and bounced on his heels. She realized he hadn't had his ADD meds in forever. It was amazing he was as calm as he was.

“If you say so.” Stiles checked the safety on his gun, then loosely held it. Allison noticed that his finger was nowhere near the trigger. At least he had picked that up.

They made their way through the cruise ship, quickly taking down the Argent forces where they found them. She was getting tired and they'd only wiped out half the forces when they got out to the deck. Allison had traded her mop handle for a machete in one hand and a serrated dagger in the other. The dagger had left a long, jagged cut across her side that bled and burned whenever she moved. Stiles was well past shaking, but he'd gotten better at killing people. He also had unnatural aim. She wondered when he'd gotten so good with firearms.

The first man fell overboard when Allison slit his throat and threw him overboard. If it had still been just her they'd come for, she might have avoided being lethal, but they went after Stiles. They attacked these innocent people. There was already blood on Allison's hands, so adding a bit more was nothing.

She repeated her code under her breath. "Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent se protéger." Then Allison threw her dagger and caught another man in the back of the neck. Then the other half dozen people on board noticed them.

Allison threw herself behind some kind of vent or something. She wasn't a sailor, so she didn't know what it was, but she heard Stiles trading gunfire with them and tightened her grip on her machete. Her mouth silently echoed her code, helping to block out the pain in her side. Then she rolled out of hiding and face the nearest Argent.

She was familiar. Allison tried to place her, but couldn't.

“You troublesome wench.” She fired her gun at Allison but missed. It almost seemed intentional: the grin on her face was a definite clue.

Throwing her machete to the side, Allison caught the man trying to sneak up on her square in the chest. She was out in the open and defenceless. Why weren't they trying to kill her?

Allison didn't even bother to return a taunt. She just rose to her unsteady feet. Then the woman's head exploded. Looking around, Allison saw Stiles wink at her. Rolling past some bullets aimed her way, Allison grabbed the gun from the dead woman and started shooting back.

TW

“I missed California.” Stiles and Allison were in the back of a cab, headed for Beacon Hills. Danny had sworn that he and Lydia would pay for their arrival. Scott was already there. He knew she was coming. There was no way he wouldn't know. There was also no way she could see him or the others.

She would make sure Stiles got home safe, and then Allison would hit the road again. Maybe she'd bring her father along. He was an Argent, too, so he was likely a victim as well. Her family had attacked and killed almost a quarter of a cruise ship's passengers just to get to her.

“Hey, you're being quiet again. We won! We managed to get home, and likely piss off Jackson Whittemore while doing it. Be a little celebratory.”

“It wasn't worth it.” Allison looked at the back of the cab driver's head, then slid the partition shut. She didn't want him to be able to hear what she was saying. “I'm not worth it. Stiles, all those people... Because of me. Because I thought I could escape.”

“Don't you dare, Allison Argent. They did this, not you. I swear, if you start talking about killing yourself, I'll beat the shit out of you myself,” Stiles chastised, his finger waving in her face. She looked over to him, expecting a grin, but he was deadly serious. “You did nothing wrong.”

“When did you learn how to shoot? I never got the chance to ask you, what with the constantly being surrounded by UN peacekeepers and whatnot.” Allison let her eyes fall to her shoes. She leaned her back against the car door and put her feet on the seat as if to separate herself from Stiles.

“My dad was the sheriff of Beacon Hills for years, Allison. Even though he never let me have a gun of my own, a tradition that Lydia and Danny saw fit to continue for god knows why, he made sure I learned how to handle one. Cops are really big on gun safety. I go out to the range once a week.”

Allison tilted her head in confusion. “I've never seen you at the range. And I'm there all the time.”

“You make it known when you're going. I don't. And I've been there with you before, you just never noticed me. You're all in the zone and stuff. And I'm usually shooting outdoors while you're inside.”

“Scott never said anything.”

“Scott never knew.” Stiles shrugged. “The shooting stuff was something my dad and I did together. He didn't want Scott to hear about it and ask to come along. And I just never told him. He thought I was visiting my grandma or something. It was a nice secret. And the guy who owns the range would let me try all different kinds of guns.”

“Do you realize how much easier life would have been if we knew you knew how to shoot a gun?”

Stiles bit his lip and shook his head. “Allison, it might have been easier, but it wouldn't have been better. Guns don't stop bad things from happening. They make bad things worse. Besides, you're the sharpshooter. I'm the ideas guy. We all have our place.”

Allison wanted to say something. She wanted to point out how ridiculous Stiles' position was, but instead she almost fell to the floorboard when the cab jerked to a stop.

“Hey? What's wrong with you?” Stiles shouted after opening the partition. Allison half expected the driver to start shooting at them, but instead he told them to look out the window. They did and saw Stiles' spouses waiting on the side of the road.

“This is where I was told to drop you off.”

“Thanks.” Allison climbed out of the car while Lydia paid the driver, then stood to the side and watched Danny kiss Stiles like the world was ending. Then Lydia pulled Stiles away and pushed him into a trash can before kissing him.

Allison wasn't surprised that nobody was there for her; disappointed, but not surprised. When Stiles finally found himself free, he pulled Allison into a hug.

"You've given up," he whispered in her ear.

Stiles was being observant. Sometimes, under the bluster and the sarcasm, he could be surprisingly insightful. Allison was always surprised by these moments.

"I haven't given up. I've just accepted it. I'm one woman against a centuries old paramilitary secret society. God, that sentence alone..." She whispered back as the taxi drove off.

Lydia threw her arms around Stiles, sobbing about how much she was going to kill him. He held his wife and kissed his husband. Allison walked to the side and looked around. Three was no sign of danger. Why wasn't there even a hint of her family? They wouldn't leave her alone now.

"You bitch." Lydia was smiling through her tears as she pulled Allison into their group hug. Danny pressed his forehead to Allison's and thanked her for bringing his husband home.

They stayed way for almost a minute before Allison reminded them they were supposed to be in hiding.

"We are." Danny grinned and pulled out his cell phone; it didn't look like a cellphone anymore. "GPS blackout. Satellites won't pick up up as long as we're within twenty feet of this thing. It just cycles recent data."

"He tried to explain it to me, but I reminded him that I'm a genius, not a nerd." Lydia shrugged as she let the others go. She did keep an iron tight grip on Stiles' arm, though.

"That doesn't account for the low tech approach." Allison recounted the sniper in the airport. "Beacon Hills is a small town. They knew I was coming here. They knew everything about you guys."

"They didn't know about Braeden. She and your dad have been hunting any scouting parties they send. She's been our ace in the hole."

"Who is Braeden?" Allison saw Danny and Lydia both tense up, but Stiles clearly didn't know her either.

"She is Deaton's sister. His and Ms. Morrell's," Lydia explained as she tightened her grip on Stiles. He actually told her to loosen, but she didn't listen.

"The bounty hunter who rescued Isaac from the alphas our Sophomore year? Why are you guys being so cagey about her?"

"It was our Junior year," Lydia corrected. She looked to Danny when she couldn't finish what she wanted to say.

He sighed and held Stiles' hand. Allison made a note of this. "Braeden is... She and Scott are kind of partners, I guess."

"Partners?" Allison didn't complete the thought. It hurt too much. She hadn't been gone that long, and surely her friends had told him why she left. Even though she knew she didn't deserve to have Scott back, a part of her still wanted him. She wanted him to kiss her and tell her he still loved her and that he would forgive her stupid lapse in judgement.

"We don't think they're like you guys were. Are. There's too much... antagonism is a good word." Lydia looked to Danny and he nodded. "But they're closer than I expected. She's a total bitch, but I guess they met on the road and bonded. And Scott won't tell anyone how."

"Can we not talk about Scott? I'm hungry. And when you're a survivor of a pirate attack you have to be airlifted home and the food on the plane was terrible." Stiles looked to Allison and she nodded in appreciation.

"Where are you guys hiding?" Allison bit her lip. She still felt guilty, even if nobody else was blaming her.

Danny laughed, but Lydia answered. "We aren't exactly hiding. Your dad took us in. He still has a lot of Gerard's stuff, so we made that our home base. It makes researching your family a lot easier. Scott's mom and the Sheriff have moved in, too. It's been good to have a nurse and a retired officer around to help patch people up and coordinate attack strategies."

"Four years we've been married; four years of wedded bliss and they won't even call their father-in-law 'Dad'. Can you believe it?" Stiles laughed as he threw an arm around Danny's shoulder.

"The one time I called him that, he threatened to throw me in lockup." Danny countered with a grin.

"We weren't married then!"

"It was an hour before the wedding."

Allison faked a smile. It was genuinely good to hear the people in her life talking so happily. They weren't carefree, but they were happy. Even in spite of what she had brought to their lives, they didn't let it bring them down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! It's a little shorter than usual, and there's no action, but I hope you guys will like it anyway. Thanks for reading!

"Allison and I weren't the only ones running from something." Scott leaned over the desk and Braeden looked up at him from her maps, lips pulled back and teeth bared, but didn't say anything. "We've been here a month, a month of you complaining about being trapped in this small town, and you haven't taken a single day to relax and visit your siblings. Why?"

"Scarecrow, if I took a day off, you all would be dead. Alan and Marin are more than capable of coming here. They just don't want to, and I'm fine with that." Braeden licked her lips and sketched something on the map of the town. She then cursed and erased it.

Scott knelt next to her and pretended to the look at the map; out of the corner of his eyes he watched her face. They had almost gotten to know each other on the road. In New Orleans, she had actually chosen to save his life over bringing back her lover. Whatever had happened, whatever change occurred, it was now fairly nonexistent. Braeden was the same cold woman he had met in that reservation town.

"I know you haven't seen her yet." Braeden circled something else on the map. It was probably the hiding place of the next group of Argents to come to town. Scott didn't approve, and he had made it known, but Braeden and Chris had been killing the would be assassins. They'd tried to keep one as a prisoner. It was three days before she freed herself and nearly killed Danny. After that, Braeden put in place a no prisoner policy.

"How do you know that?" Scott actually had seen Allison. He watched her walk in the door; her father held her and she cried in his arms. Then he caught Lydia's eye and disappeared down the hallway.

"Because you aren't doing that thing where you stare into space and think. The brooding thing: you aren't doing that." She put her pencil down and swivelled so that they were looking at each other. "Listen, she walked out on you to save your life. She tried to save the lives of everyone in this house but me. But she still walked out on you and you're too much of a pussy to ask her why she wouldn't trust you with the truth. I get it."

"Why did you stay here? There are plenty of places in the world where you're needed. Why stay in this little town? You don't want to be here. You make that known every chance you get." Scott's eyes bore into hers, but she didn't flinch.

Then she smiled. It was a wicked thing and chills ran down his spine. "I told you this once: I do what needs done. I kill the monsters, and there is nothing out there that could hope to compete with mankind in terms of savagery." Braeden stood and stretched. "They aren't sending small forces anymore. They were testing our defended with disposable troops."

"There is no such thing as a disposable person," Scott challenged.

"And that is why you need me. You're all too good at heart. You don't think of people in terms of acceptable losses and the like. Well, most of you don't. I like your ex's dad. He almost gets it. But my people have dealt with hunters as long as we've dealt with wolves. The Argents are cold and ruthless. And now that everyone is here they're gonna hit hard. Your gal is good, but not against whatever they'll be sending."

"They won't expose themselves like that. They covered their tracks with a fake pirate attack, and the airport shooter was never found. They value their secrecy too much. Even when we had a kanima wipe out the whole police station, it was covered up."

"And that was by a small offshoot. You think they don't already have a hundred stories in place?" Braeden laughed coldly. She looked entertained by the idea. "Let's face it. We have an illegal polyandrous married trio, a retired police officer, and a bunch of people who aren't white living here. Someone just needs to plant a few bags of coke and it'll be an easy sell for a drug deal gone bad. This is California. It's not unheard of."

"Sometimes you really scare me." Scott didn't smile at Braeden, but he didn't look away. "So, what do we do? Go on the run?"

"You are as dumb as you look. They have two targets: your girl and her father. Everyone else is just leverage. They could have killed us at any time, but they waited until she arrived to get serious. Because this is a vendetta. Fucking secret societies are the absolute worst: a bunch of old ass white men plotting against anyone that might try to be their equal."

"And?"

"And we don't have a chance in Hell of beating a large force."

"I didn't think so," Allison agreed from the doorway. Scott feels his eyes bulge as he focuses extra hard on Braeden's face. She'd been using the one with the neck scars the most. His eyes lingered on those so that he wouldn't have to turn around.

Braeden rolled her eyes at Scott, then concentrated on Allison. "So, you're the reason the Scarecrow here was wandering around Arizona like a lost puppy."

"Scarecrow?" Allison sounded confused by the nickname. In a moment of clarity, Scott finally understood it.

"If he only had a brain." Scott sung as he turned to look at Allison. She was tired. He'd heard the news reports, followed the stories online, but because they were European citizens the American press barely cared. All he wanted to do was kiss her and tell her how much he loved her.

"Damn, girl, are you the wizard?" Braeden chuckled from behind Scott. "He kept asking me what it meant. I thought your boy would never get it."

"You're Braeden, then," Allison concluded without really looking at Scott. He felt something in his gut, but his brain wouldn't tell him what it was. "My dad wants you. And I..."

"You two need to be alone. I get it." Braeden stood and gathered her materials. "I'm assuming he's in the kitchen with everyone else, since we usually hold the powwows here."

Allison nodded and stepped back so the other woman could pass. Then she closed the door when it was just her with Scott. He swallowed the lump in his throat that had prevented him from speaking.

"I'm sorry," she whispered from across the room. In response, Scott just blinked. He didn't know what to say; he didn't know if he could speak. Allison continued speaking for the both of them. "I should have told you."

"You should have stayed." Both ignored the crack in his voice. "We went through this in high school. When we got back together, I thought you were done trying to shoulder responsibility for everyone else."

"You never stopped. Why would I?" Allison still wasn't looking at him. Maybe she couldn't. "They didn't go for my dad. It was me. They knew I was the weak link."

"And you proved them wrong. Time and again." Scott finally stood, but just long enough to sit on the edge of the desk. "You were never a victim, Allison. What were you trying to prove going out there by yourself?"

"Nothing." She finally looked into Scott's eyes. There was something missing from them. He wondered if it would ever come back. "I did it to protect you. They were going to kill you."

"I'm not exactly a damsel in distress myself," Scott pointed out as he flashed his red eyes. "You should have told me."

Stifling back what was obviously a sob, Allison took a moment to compose herself. Scott took that moment to stare at his hands since he didn't know what else to do.

"They sent me a picture of you. There was a cross hair on it, and you were asleep. It was in our bed. Our home, Scott, and they waltzed in just to take a photo. We never knew. If I hadn't gone, everyone would have died."

"They've been coming for us for weeks. We've been fine. Between Danny blocking all satellite photography of the house and your dad planning with Braeden, we've been a step ahead of them. We would have been safe."

Allison shook her head, and a few tears fell loose. She wiped them away with a sniff. For a moment, Scott wondered how long he could hold his own back. Then he felt his cheek and realized he hadn't.

"You don't get it. Before this, I didn't even know that my... My family is still active in France. All over the world, really. And I had no idea. Scott, every bad thing we've experienced in this town? It's just the edge of the cliff. There are a million more things just waiting to push us over."

"And mankind is the worst one," Scott agreed, remembering Braeden's words. He remembered what he'd experienced in that small Arizona town. He felt his chest where Peter had stabbed him after Braeden refused to do it.

"They're never going to stop." Allison stepped away from Scott, her back flat against the door.

"You're leaving again. I just got you back. Why?" Scott's voice broke again and he closed his eyes. It hurt to much to look at her. He felt her lips on his. She ran her hands along his shoulders, then down his arms until their fingers interlaced. He kept his eyes closed.

"After whatever happens, my dad and I are both leaving. We know how to disappear. As long as we're here, nobody is safe."

"We weren't safe before." Scott argued in vain. Allison kissed his forehead and let him go.

"This is different. You know it is."

"I'll go with you." Scott heard the door open.

Then he heard it shut. Allison broke down on the other side, but he just sat on the desk telling himself that it wasn't real. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at the empty room.

TW

"You two are just leaving like that?" Braeden watched from the living room as Allison and her father began hauling bags to the SUV. "That's cold. These people don't even rate a farewell? Not that I'd give them one either, but I'm a bitch."

"How are you awake?" Chris asked, setting his bags down and catching his daughter's eye.

"Odourless, tasteless drugs may work on werewolves and the average human, but I'm a good read on body language. You two were suspicious as hell, so I didn't eat the big celebratory dinner. Not that it matters. I'm not gonna stop you. Shit, if you need help loading the car just say the word." Braeden crossed her legs and leaned back into the sofa. "You know they're watching. You know the rules of war. And you want to keep everyone here safe by leading them out of town."

"She's smart," Allison told her father before handing him her bags. "I'll be out in a minute. We need to have a chat."

"Don't take too long." Chris looked between his daughter and the other woman before picking up his bags and hauling them out along with Allison's.

"Take care of them for me." Allison crossed her arms and looked at Braeden. She neither knew nor trusted the woman They'd met before, when she was still in high school, but it had been in passing. Allison didn't even know her name until that morning.

"They're on their own. Without you here, the Argents will move on. A small group will stay to observe and not engage, which is typical Argent procedure, but you two already knew that. It's sound planning on all sides. And I'll be leaving in the morning, too. I don't like staying in one place too long. Domesticity makes me feel trapped; it's suffocating as fuck. My ass needs to be on the move.”

Allison looked back to the garage where her father was waiting, then to the stairs. "How do you know what they're plotting? How are you connected to my family?"

"Let's just say that we've had run-ins before. They usually ended violently, but I'm low enough on the food chain to not rate a world spanning revenge plot. Unlike you." Braeden shrugged and uncrossed her legs with a smirk. "But that's a story that'll never be told. Don't worry, I'll leave after they're all awake. Just in case something does happen."

“Thank you. I know you said you aren't staying, but thank you for taking care of them.”

“You realize this is a mess you're leaving me, and that it's gonna take forever to clean it up, right? I should charge your asses. In fact, hand over a credit card. You guys won't ever pay it off, and it'll throw your relatives off your trail for a little bit.”

TW

"Why did you let them go?" Scott was sitting across the table watching Braeden eat cereal. He wasn't hungry, and he didn't understand how she could be. All he wanted to do was vomit. When everyone else had awoken for the day, they noticed their hosts had vanished and went into a panic. What Braeden told them hadn't calmed anyone down, but they had stopped searching the grounds.

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to stop them." She slurped the milk from her spoon, then rolled her eyes. "She's a grown woman and he's a grown man. They can make their own decisions."

"It wasn't a good decision," Scott pouted as he crossed his arms and glowered at the woman. "You could have at least woke someone up. We could've stopped them.”

Braeden snorted and let her spoon clatter on the table. "You act like they did something wrong. Scarecrow, I agreed with them. They made the right call. Maybe you'll get that someday. Not everything can end up the way you want. The good guys lose sometimes. Just move on."

He wanted to yell at her. Scott wanted to stomp his feet and throw James in Braeden's face and make a complete ass of himself. Instead, he chose to walk out of the room.

"Wait," Braeden called after him. He stopped, but didn't turn around. "There was something else."

Waiting in silence, Scott tapped his foot. He knew Braeden was wanting him to turn around. She wanted him to blink first, to let her know that she had won this one. His eyes locked onto hers when he did finally turn his head.

"The gal... Allison? Anyway, she said to tell you that she loves you and she always will." Her heart skipped a beat. She was lying, trying to make him feel better. When she saw Scott smile, she coughed and broke the eye contact. She knew he knew. Braeden was embarrassed; Scott fought the urge to tease her about it. Then he remembered what she was lying about and left.

Stiles and Lydia were waiting in the living room where she was holding his hand and crying. Danny was probably at the computer trying to track them, but he had to know it was fruitless. They'd left their phones and GPS behind and stolen Danny's satellite blocker. Maybe Danny had a way to track that, but Scott didn't know enough about computers to put much faith into such a long shot.

Looking over his friends and passing by, Scott continued out to the front yard. Someone was watching him. Somewhere, a stranger with a familiar surname likely had him in cross hairs. He didn't care. He wasn't the target. The targets had fled into the night.

"Scott." The voice wasn't one he had expected.

"Sheriff."

The man who had been a father to him, the one who had been there when Scott's own father wasn't, put a hand on his shoulder. "Are you gonna leave, too?"

"I don't think I can stay." Scott tilted his head until his neck cracked. "No offence, but there's no future for me here. I'm just so... unnecessary. This entire time, all I've done is hang around the house feeling useless. I need to actually do something.”

“You aren't useless, Scott.” The sheriff squeezed his shoulder. “You're needed here. Your mother needs you, your friends need you. Hell, sometimes even I need you.”

Shaking his head, Scott smiled at the comforting words. “No, Sheriff, I'm wanted. And it's great, I love everyone, too. And I would love nothing more than to be able to stay here, but there is a whole world of people out there that don't want me. But they need me. And I didn't know it until Braeden showed me. I can do so much more good outside of Beacon Hills than I could staying.”

Scott felt the sheriff's hand slide from his shoulder, and he turned his head so that he could see the older man. He was smiling, something Scott hadn't been expecting.

“You and Braeden are close? I didn't know that. You two are always fighting.”

“We're not. She's actually kind of a terrible person. It's just... I can save all of these people by helping her. And maybe, someday, I can even save her from herself. I just don't want to give up. Because once, for one moment, I saw a glimpse of good in her. Something tells me that I can make her see that there is more to helping people than killing something.”

“So you're leaving with her, then?”

Scott looked at the doorway to the house, where Stiles was standing. Neither Scott's brother-in-law nor his sister-in-law was with him.

“Yeah, I am. You guys can take care of the town without me. You haven't really needed me in years.”

“If you'll recall, half the time I was protecting the town from you. What're you gonna do out there?”

“Help people, apparently,” the sheriff answered for Scott, grinning widely. He looked from his biological son to his surrogate one. “Scott, don't be a stranger. Call often, and visit once in awhile. It's good for your mom. She took it the hardest when you vanished.”

“It's good for me, too, you jackass. I just got you back.” Stiles stepped onto the yard and walked over to give Scott a hug.

TW

“Are you ready, Scarecrow?” Braeden was waiting by the bike. She hadn't been present for the goodbyes, said something about nausea the moment she saw Deaton and Morrell arrive.

“You waited for me. I'm flattered. Where are we headed?” Scott handed Braeden her helmet. His mother had made him buy one for the woman shortly after they arrived in town. “Back to New Orleans to deal with the swamp creature?”

“North, actually. Got a call about a wendigo in Washington.”

“But isn't Virginia to the East?”

Braeden grinned as she held her helmet up. “Why have the people in your life not made you wear one of these at all times? Washington State, Scarecrow. Not Washington DC. And, for the record, the District of Columbia is not a part of any state. It's kinda like Puerto Rico in that it's a part of the US, but not an actual state. It's like a commonwealth or a territory or something. And you don't care.”

“I really don't,” Scott agreed. “Washington is a pretty big place. You have anything more specific?”

“Not at the moment, but that's not gonna stop us, is it?”

“Nope. I have a friend in Seattle who should be willing to give us a place to stay. Just don't do that thing to her you do to everyone else.”

“I have a thing I do?” Braeden sounded amused as she stood back to let Scott climb on the bike.

“Yeah. You act like a complete and utter bitch.”

She smirked. Scott couldn't see it, but he knew that it was what she was doing. “No promises.”

“What's a wendigo?”

“Maybe we should find you a wizard first, Scarecrow.”


End file.
